


There Must be an Angel With a Smile

by benevolens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF
Genre: F/M, POV Alternating, Rating is for mentioned and possible drug use, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, and for future events that I don't know, briefly, but may happen, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolens/pseuds/benevolens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new spin on how Sherlock and Molly first met...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Must be an Angel With a Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts), [mylovelymindpalace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylovelymindpalace/gifts), [orangesherbert06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesherbert06/gifts).



> Hello!
> 
> Right, so this thing was my first (and only fic) posted on ff.net, but over the years I've felt it needed a revamp and that was holding me back from writing more. So, this is what I have done. I've revamped the first chapter so far and I'm starting to feel that it's much better than it was (subject to change...) 
> 
> Anyhow, like the summary succinctly notes, this is a new take on an origin story for our favourite two dorks and is inspired by the song You're Beautiful by James Blunt because I heard it playing at work and I was very, very bored and I came back with the outline of this story. 
> 
> The original version was beta'd by the lovely broomclosetkink and mylovelymindpalace (I'm sorry i got the username wrong when i first posted :/)  
> and was dedicated to the most darling of humans, orangesherbert06. I gift this one to the three of you. (Even if you don't remember ;) )

Molly Hooper walked quickly through the tube station, listening for the sound of the train whistling to a stop as her heartbeat quickened significantly. She had woken up quite late (apparently not so according to her father) that morning and scolded herself for a simple moment of indulging her sleepy self in another fifteen minutes of rest. 

 _Move it, Hooper,_ she chanted. She could hardly afford to miss this train and risk being late for class….Well, maybe she could, but she wasn't about to let her attendance suffer. Rushing through the stalls and towards the platform just as the train pulled in, her chest filled with relief. _Thank god_. She shuffled in with the rest of the crowd, slowly pushing her way towards an empty seat so she could at least have breakfast. 

"Molly?" She looked up at the sound of her name, a granola bar half-forgotten and sticking out of her mouth. 

"Thomas?" Smiling nervously, Molly knew she must have looked slightly silly and took the bar from her mouth before sticking it back in the wrapping. 

"Well, someone looks in a hurry this morning." He smiled down at her, spreading across his face and touching his eyes, lighting them with a sparkle.  _Charming bastard._  

"Yeah, slept in a bit. I just didn't want to get up." She looked up at him and eyed his neat blonde curls tucked under a ridiculous hat. 

"It's cold today, isn't it?" 

 _Can't you go away?_ _I’m not in the mood._  

 As charming as Thomas looked, Molly found there to be less than charming things under his hat and neat hair. Perhaps, it was his lacking knowledge in anything, but sports and apparently celebrity gossip rather than the same questions he constantly had for her in chemistry.   

Glancing away from him as she pretended to listen, Molly felt her heart leaped up into her throat. A man, more a boy, almost her age was staring at her across the carriage. His dark curls stuck out from under a hood and his blue eyes seemed to burn her skin as if he were attempting to stare right into her soul. There was something about him…. Maybe it was the high cheek bones and the striking eyes, eyes that spoke of something…deep…indescribable.  She found herself imagining how tall he would be if he weren’t slouching or if he made to stand. Molly threw him a smile after seeming to have been caught in his gaze, hoping to… 

Swallowing hard, she noted the redness in his eyes that began to shift quickly from place to place, the way his face seemed to twitch, the way his hands seemed to fidget with the strap of his bag and the way his knee bounced impatiently. 

 _Was he….high?_  Molly's smile faded into a grimaced, saddened by the thought. Maybe she knew too much for her own good. A hazard of what she wanted her future occupation to be, Molly had become well versed in the body and the signs and symptoms as the effect of different drugs or disease on the body. Quickly, Molly turned away not wanting to see him anymore or rather the effect of what he had done to himself. It had her heart aching. _He is_ _so beautiful, what a waste._  

Thomas, she found, had continued to chatter away in her ear throughout, even as she moved to look out the carriage window. She tried to push the boy from her mind, not knowing why a fleeting look between her and a stranger had gripped her mind so tightly.  

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had boarded the train quickly, trying not to look at anything other than his feet and the ground. He could feel the pull of his mind, a want to look up and then…his mind would race with a million thoughts, overwhelming his senses completely. His high would be wasted and he was out until he could find someone to get him another hit. 

Deep within himself, Sherlock knew this was no way to live, even though it seemed to get him through most of the day. But, it was each night, when the pull of withdrawal tugged his body down, the sick feeling he knew would follow sent him looking for more. His mind shut off for a time, but soon he would have to start taking more, ripping his body to further shreds for the preservation of his mind.  

How long would it really be until he took enough to ruin even that?  

 _Approximately, two…_ He shoved the hood roughly over his head as he worked to push that particular thought from his mind and sat down in one corner of the carriage as the train took off. Sherlock gave his mind one indulgence. Just one person to focus a part of his mind of to get him through. That was when he saw _her_. A simple girl…Good.  He could read all he needed from the side of her face without even having to really start up his mind. 

 _Simple,_ _but reasonably intelligent. Doesn’t seem to be listening to the dolt next to her._  

That made him smile for some reason.  

 _Student._  

 _Around m_ _y age._  

 _Goes to public school not far from mine_ _from the look of the ratty uniform._  

 _She tries so hard not to let it--_ _._  

Then she caught him staring. 

 _No, no ,no! Why had she_ _looked? She wasn't supposed to!_  

While he internally panicked, his outward demeanour remained (or so he thought) unchanged in his comfortable slouched position.   

Her hair, gathered to one side under a blue hat, had been resting on her left shoulder and now, it flicked back as she turned to face him. Even under the fluorescent lights he could see where the sun would create natural highlights in her auburn hair and brighten her skin incredibly. Her soft brown eyes were set on his face, examining him with an intensity. He wondered if that was what he looked like when he-- She smiled at him suddenly, making his heart jump. The uneven quirk of her lips, made him want to smile even more, though he was sure his face remained with a neutral expression.  

The girl was obviously bored with her boyfriend… 

 _N_ _ot her boyfriend._  

They were sitting too far apparent and he body was turned away from him rather than towards. As if the lack of attention wasn’t indicative enough. Apparently, the dolt also found himself hilarious as he began laughing at something he’d said.  

Meanwhile, the girl’s cheeks had flushed red and something was working behind her eyes.  

   
Sherlock's heart ached instantly. 

Sentiment. 

 _Mycroft_ _always said….._  

 _Damn_ _Mycroft. He always thought he was better than everyone else. Maybe he should spend more time stuffing his face with Mummy’s fairy cakes._  

And then, Sherlock saw her smile fade. 

Had her gentle eyes seen right through him? Had she noticed his body shaking, fingers fidgeting with the ends of his sweater or the strap of his bag and the bloodshot eyes? 

Sherlock wished he could have just….what? What did he wish he could do? She looked disgusted by him now. There wasn’t a thing he could do now. 

In all probability, he would never see her again. They would never meet. Never. He would never get to see if those lips were as soft as he imagined they looked. Never get to gaze into her eyes while they gaze at him with that soft look….  

He banished every one of those thoughts. None of it mattered. At all.  

The girl finally tugged her gaze from him, but took to stealing glances every now and then, but she stood quickly when the train stopped next and rushed to the door, trying to beat the crowds.  

 _Or maybe to avoid me?_  

Sherlock followed her out while she was mildly distracted by the boy that annoyingly chatted away as she listened silently. Sherlock looked down the length of her body, taking in her uniform and soft curves. 

 _What am I_ _doing?_   

He knew better. He should have continued to heed Mycroft’s advice. No matter what _other_ parts of him thought.  

Sherlock quickly tucked himself behind a concrete post before she could catch him following her mindlessly. He kept himself there, willing himself to let her go. Letting any trace of her step be erased by the throng of travellers. And most of all, from his mind. 

 

* * *

 

 **10 years later**  

"Honestly, Lestrade, are you that out of your depths? I won't work with anyone else and especially not Anderson or a new pathologist," Sherlock complained as he followed D.I Lestrade into the morgue. He knew he was pushing the Detective Inspectors limits today, the grim line of his mouth and a fist tightening at his side every so often. Sherlock could claim to be the cause of several of the lines on the man’s forehead and the increase in the greying of his hair. Lestrade, however, would be lost without him on this case and he had told Sherlock so on many an occasion.  

The double grey doors swung idly behind him while he smiled smugly behind the D.I’s back. The moment he had glanced away to the new person he was expected to work with his heart almost flew out of his chest. His throat closed as he attempted to swallow and wet his now dry mouth.  

Surely the cosmos was laughing at him. Someone thought it a great cosmic joke to have his heart beat again and so wildly after years of training himself to suppress emotional feelings that most normal people gave in to.  He had tried to give it up that day in the Tube station. _Stupid_. But, he had pined over a girl he had only seen at a distance, for a moment (a whole five minutes). He had spent (wasted) time months after searching for her face on the train again before he succumbed to his old habits. 

"Sherlock, this is St. Bart's newest recruit, Doctor Molly Hooper.  Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. He consults with us." Sherlock worked meticulously to show no signs of his inner distress while Gordon introduced them. 

 Molly (he noted her name quickly, a glimpse of her younger face fleetingly passing before his mind’s eye) looked up from her paper work, with her smile in place.  

 _Not so one sided anymore._  

His resolve was slipping out of place. 

 _Same brown eyes. New crinkles at the edges._  

 _Her mouth…Still such an appealing colour._  

 _And now,_  

 _Doctor? A pathologist no less._  

To Sherlock, this was a horrible setback in his methods of coping.  

 

* * *

 

Molly finished scribbling her notes as she heard Greg introduce a man named Sherlock. Looking up, she smiled wholeheartedly, until she saw the man's face. It was a face that had often haunted her over the years. A face she sometimes (even still) saw in her dreams. She thought him to be a figment of her imagination after all these years (somewhere in her heart, she had hopes he had survived). It took her ages to figure out what to do with herself once she had blatantly began staring at Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Oddly enough, Molly had heard of him or of his cases at least, especially whispers of him through colleagues and plenty of warnings before her first day at Bart’s. She was surprised (amongst his other surprising attributes) that it had taken this long for them to meet.  

"Hello." She attempted to confidently stick out a hand towards him, though she had betrayed her façade by worrying her bottom lip as the sound of her rapidly beating heart filled her ears. 

* * *

 

Sherlock watched as Molly moved to offer a hand. His mind raced at what seemed an even faster pace.  _What should I do?_  He couldn't possibly  grasp her hand with his own having become shaky and disgustingly sweaty. 

 _This hasn’t happen to me since I_ _was a stupid teenager!_  

 _Core meltdown mode initiated._  

"Yes, a pleasure. Now, can I see the Davis body?" he supplied quickly, walking past her, each step a pinprick in his chest. 

From the corner of his eyes, he watched her retract her hand and slip it into her pocket dejectedly, while her eyes went wide.  

"Y-yes, I s-suppose." Her voice had suddenly become meek and— 

 _A stutter? Really? Interesting…_  

 _What if she remembers?_  

No, no. He couldn’t rely on her doing that, nor should he be hoping she did. I t would be better in the end. It would make the work even better if the whole matter was forgotten entirely.   

"Well, I have to go.” Lestrade announced, having slowly moved towards the door at some point. “Keep an eyes on this one, Molly, makes more trouble that he's worth. Give him five or ten minutes with the body.” 

"Five is ample." Sherlock supplied, shifting his eyes immediately as he noted they had fallen upon examining her hair.  

 _God, is it_ _shinier_ _?_  

 _Has she gotten more highl_ _ights?_  

 _Plausible: Highlights increase with more exposure to the sun._  

 _Experiment hypothesis: --_  

 _Stop this!_  

* * *

 

Feeling thoroughly embarrassed and the blood rushing to her cheeks, Molly turned round and plastered a smile onto her face. "One minute. I just need to get the keys and the paperwork." She excused herself from the room, shoving her hand in her pocket to make sure the keys that were already in her pocket didn't jingle. Molly needed a moment to herself, a moment to think without _him_ in the room. 

He couldn't be the same boy she had seen all those years ago. Could he? He was taller now and more muscular, hair more refined, still curly. The same cheekbones and all knowing eyes. There were no signs of drug use now which seemed like a blessing. Still posh as ever. This would be trouble and all because she remembered staring at him while taking the tube one day, a decade ago. 

 She wanted to cry, her heart drowning in realisation. 

 _I won’t make it through today or working with him, ever._  

 _I’m already stuttering._  

 _I never stutter!_  

* * *

 

Sherlock pretended to look bored as Molly excused herself to retrieve keys that she already had in her pocket. He worked hard to seem as if he were intently gazing at a sign on the wall as she walked by. 

 _Red in the face._  

 _Telling lies._  

 _She must never stutter._  

 _Logical conclusion:_ _Molly Hooper must remember him._  

 His long subdued heart seemed to be pounding in his ears. She couldn't remember such a fleeting moment. 

 _If it was so fleeting, why do you remember it?_  

 No one had a memory like his! And yet, despite his ability to delete memories (unimportant ones), he hadn’t been able to discard the look on her face before she had left the train.  

No one would ever know, nor would he admit it to anyone (even under duress) that it had been the look on her face that had him kick his habit the first time… And the second ( the third was a different story and hadn’t allowed her to dwell on him as much as his mother had). Even after his first relapse, Molly Hooper’s damn face and the sweet eyes would haunt him in the halls of the mind palace he had so meticulously built to keep such things away. Sometimes, she would be a full manifestation, following him around and reminding him just how disgusting he was and how sad him poor old Mummy would be if she only knew all of the horrible things he did to his “the beautiful gift that God had left him to do good with”.  

 _It’s hardly a gift if it’s_ _debilitating_ _and apparently make me an ungracious, asshol_ _e._ He would argue with her sometimes and then she would laugh, flipping her hair over her shoulder before she would remind him that he was taking to himself and Mummy wouldn’t be proud of him being so self-deprecating.  

The click of her heels brought him back out of his head even though he much rather stay there and disregard the whole situation.  She walked past him again, this time close enough for him to catch a whiff of a soft scent, separate from the decomposition and formaldehyde. 

 _Vanilla and—_  

 _God, what is the other one?_  

 _I need to get closer—_  

 _NO!_  

 Squeezing his eyes momentarily, he attempted to busy his thoughts with reciting the periodic table backwards. 

"Cause of death?" he blurted out, as soon as he was aware the body had been lain our before him.   

"Asphyxiation," she answered promptly, standing back from the table with both hands curled around the top of her clipboard. “S-so far as I-I can tell.” Her voice was almost a whisper and something tightened in his chest. Choosing to ignore the dull pain, Sherlock bent and sniffed at the body, cocking his head to one side as he tried to examine the corpses open mouth from afar and without dirtying his hands. He wanted out as soon as it was possible.  

"Obviously, you missed the poison." Sherlock spat, straightening his posture.  "Amateur mistake at best.”  

He watched her squirm under his gaze. 

"T-Toxicology isn't back, yet. Erm, I didn’t—I wasn’t—" 

The stuttering… Either she was afraid, intimidated or likely both. This was perhaps the strategy he needed to adopt with her.  

Of the solutions that he could seem to come up with, besides letting in on the fact that he remembered her or that he was, maybe, probably--- 

 No, Molly couldn't know and never would, at least from him. He doubted she would ever let on that she did, if she did. His mind was set and God help anyone that wanted to change it. 

Removing his gaze from the body, he unconsciously looked into her eyes. “Under the tongue. The discolouration could be the effect of three…no, five different poisons. Not to mention the track marks. He may have been an addict, but they seemed to have been used as a delivery system for poisons that Mr. Davis didn’t want shoved into his system. Most definitely not. Mr. Davis was just six months sober. Romantic engagements will do that to people…apparently. Text me the toxicology results, Doctor Hooper. I’m sure it will be good review for you.”   

Tugging himself from the spot, he took a couple long strides straight out through the doors and didn’t stop walking until he was outside of the building.  

* * *

 

She looked into his eyes, wondering why her lips were shaking and why she couldn’t stop stuttering when she spoke to the blasted man?! The intensity of his gaze, mixed with what were changing colours in his eyes, Molly remained quiet throughout his explanation.  Soon enough and with a flourish of his long dark coat, Sherlock had demand for the results he exited the morgue so swiftly, that Molly had little time to comprehend where he had picked all of those details from.  

After having locked up again and making sure to send a message to toxicology to hurry the report, Molly let the tiredness she was feeling sink in. What a whirlwind of a day at what was only a couple months into a new job! 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Molly slowly shuffled back to her office with the clipboard dangling from her free hand. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, the ghost from her past and the haunter of her dreams. In some ways it was nice to finally know his name and connect the dots to what she knew of him before…or rather in between?   

But what she hadn’t fully realised was that he would be in there all the time consulting with Lestrade or other D.I’s if what she heard about how much he consulted was correct. (It had waned just before she had started her position. What had happened there?) 

Molly thought it would be best to forget she had ever seen that boy on the train (like she had tried to do again and again. A stranger would pass and have her wondering if it could be him again. The new bodies in the morgue had her very anxious when she first started, hating the thought of seeing him on a slab and having to—) . Maybe, she had mistaken him. That was the most likely scenario. Molly’s overly imaginative mind had created this idea and she was idiotically attempting to connect herself in some way to a man, who was, well, extremely handsome now that she thought of it. Besides, who knew where Sherlock had grown up, right? Maybe he was one of those country boys who moved to the city for Uni and then decided to stay? Or he was from somewhere North…or South… and his accent had— 

Heaving a huge sigh, Molly dropped into the chair at her desk and let her head hit the back of it as her eyes closed.  

 _No more thinking about some stranger and pawning it off on every new person you meet._  

 _God, Mol_ _ly ,what is wrong with you_ _?!_  

* * *

 

Once outside, Sherlock had lit a cigarette or maybe two…And was taking a long drag from a third. 

 _I’ll just have to delete it entirely._  

 _Until she is simply a stranger._  

 _No,no. Not like_ _Redbeard_ _._  

This would take an unusual amount of time to process since he had been harbouring it (wrongly) for years. This was also going to take reinforcements of the tobacco persuasion since he wouldn’t ruin anything more because of _her._  

 _Better start now._  

Nose twitching, Sherlock dropped his final cigarette, putting it out with his foot before he made for home. This would be a long night once he had told Lestrade that he had solved the case hours before they had made it to the despicable mortuary.  


End file.
